Home from the gym. In my bedroom, trying to rescue my hair. I have managed to wash it. But Georgia has woken from her morning nap, so drying it will be a problem.
‘I’m not Georgia any more,’ she tells me. ‘I’m a kangaroo.’
She bends down, face plastered in a mischievous grin. ‘I need to do my hopping practice.’ She begins to hop around our bedroom. Even though she is only three years old, she is heavy enough to make the floorboards vibrate. I shouldn’t have let her sleep for so long. Now she is full of energy. She picks up my Chanel perfume.
‘Kangaroos like perfume,’ she announces, spraying it into the air around her.
I snatch it away and put it in a drawer. ‘They don’t like perfume. They like grass.’
‘Come on then, Mummy, let’s go outside and get some.’
‘I can’t go outside, I need to dry my hair.’
‘Well I’ll go then,’ she says, jumping towards the door.
I lean across and lock it. ‘No. No. You can’t go alone. I’ll come outside with you later.’
‘OK, Mummy, I’ll wait.’
She jumps up and down on the spot. She bounces towards the dressing table, and picks up my new eyeshadow.
‘Kangaroos like wearing make-up too.’
‘No they don’t. Kangaroos like sitting on their mummy’s bed watching films.’
I sweep her into my arms and lift her onto the bed. I snap the TV on and find The Jungle Book, her favourite film, on Amazon Prime. I sit at my dressing table, brush my hair and switch the hairdryer on. She slips off the bed and moves towards me. She shakes my leg to get my attention.
‘Where do shadows come from?’ she asks.
I snap the hairdryer off. ‘Go back and watch the video. Ask Daddy tonight,’ I suggest. ‘He knows that sort of thing.’
Phillip knows so many weird random facts. As soon as I met him I admired his intelligence.
She tosses her head disapprovingly. ‘You just want to dry your hair, not talk to me, Mummy.’
‘I need to dry my hair, Georgia – it’s wet.’
She stoops into her kangaroo position again, hands like paws, bent in front of her chest. I scoop her in my arms and place her on the bed again in front of The Jungle Book. I sit next to her with my arms around her, to try and calm her. Then when she is engrossed in the movie, I creep away and continue to blow-dry my hair. When I have finally finished smoothing my hair, I turn the TV off.
‘Come on, we’re off to the shops,’ I announce.
She wriggles off the sofa and slips her hand in mine.
‘Can I walk, Mummy? Leave the buggy here?’
Her walking is more of a totter than a walk. But she smiles at me, and as soon as I see her smile, I melt. So after wrapping up against the rain, brandishing a brolly this time, we leave our modern town house, holding hands. Georgia is now tired of being a kangaroo. Just when I would like to go quickly, we move like snails. Turning the corner past the line of fine Victorian houses, towards the high street. Right onto the main road. Past the green, beneath the bridge. Dust from passing traffic spitting into our faces as we slowly progress towards the centre of town. At last we arrive at a narrow doorway between the bank and the chip shop. The entrance for Serendipity Model Agency. The scent of the chip shop assaults my nostrils as I press the buzzer. The speaker attached to the buzzer vibrates. I lean my weight on the door and we tumble inside.
Slowly, slowly, still holding hands, we pad upstairs to Serendipity Model Agency, run solely by my agent, Mimi Featherington. She has ten clients, and a room above the chip shop that always smells of burnt fat.
I knock on the glass door at the top of the stairs.
‘Come in,’ Mimi invites, opening the door to welcome us. ‘How lovely to see you.’
Georgia stares at Mimi’s purple Mohican hair. Mimi, a forty-year-old punk rocker, with a neat face spoilt by a plethora of pins sticking into it. We follow Mimi into her office.
‘So good to see you,’ she simpers.
My heart sinks. Mimi always simpers when she hasn’t any news. And I so wanted her to be telling me I had a new modelling contract.
‘I just thought I’d pop in and see how things were going,’ I say with a shrug of my shoulders.
‘Do sit down,’ she says gesticulating to the chair in front of her desk. I do as she requests and Georgia scrambles onto my lap.
‘What did you want to know?’ Mimi asks.
My insides tighten. It’s obvious, isn’t it? When will she send me some decent work? I’ve done reasonable work before, haven’t I? I need the Serendipity Model Agency to really, really pull their finger out. To get me the work I deserve.
‘Just wondered whether you’d heard from the estate agent yet?’ I ask, putting my head on one side in an attempt to look as nonchalant as possible.
Mimi’s eyes flicker. ‘I’m afraid it’s a no. They liked you a lot but …’ She crosses her legs and folds her arms.
I wrap my arms around Georgia and pull her towards me. ‘But what?’ I ask, smiling bravely.
‘They wanted someone a little younger.’
The words I have dreaded for so long, finally spoken. I inhale the scent of Georgia’s young skin and for a second, instead of loving her, I envy her.
‘But I’m only thirty-four for heaven’s sake,’ I splutter.
Mimi shakes her head. ‘Mid-thirties – a difficult age group to market.’
Anger incubates inside me. If I do not leave quickly it will erupt.
My smile stretches tightly. ‘Well let’s just hope something else crops up soon. I’d best be off. Time to pick Tamsin up from school.’
‘Mummy, Mummy, please can we buy sweeties first?’ Georgia asks.
Too weak to argue, I reply, ‘Yes. Yes. Of course.’
I look out of the window. It is still raining. I am still in Mouse’s flat. Still playing chess. Or at least Mouse is playing. I’m pretending to, but not really concentrating. I am thinking about you, Faye. About wanting to be like you. A better version of myself.
For you look like the woman I might have been, if I’d had a solid start in life. The day I first saw you, walking past my flat, after you had turned in to the school playground I sat on the sofa in my musty home, and yet again studied my mother’s photograph, now creased and faded with time. I found myself staring at the once fine lines of her face, knowing that many years ago she must have looked like you. I glanced at my chubby face in the mirror, and knew that I could look like you too, one day, if I wasn’t so overweight.
Inspired by your glamour, my first step to improve my looks was a visit to the local Oxfam shop. As soon as I walked in the scent of stale clothing assaulted me. The shop assistant was paler than pale. Frizzy brown hair. Pinprick eyes. Looking bored and sorry for herself, as if she would rather be doling out food in Africa, or building pot-bellied children a new schoolhouse.
I began to flick through the racks of clothes.